To Those Who Endure Fire
by LadyCavil
Summary: (Sequel to The Road to War) Aramis and Porthos enter Spain to carry out their mission.
1. Chapter 1

**For those of you just joining us: you shouldn't need to read The Road to War to understand what's going on, but the events of the last chapter are addressed in this first chapter. If you don't want to read the last chapter/the first installment, that's fine, just know this is set six or seven months after the events of season two, they faked Porthos' death, and now Aramis and Porthos are on their way to be spies in Spain. Also, Aramis' horse's name is Gelos.**

Aramis' horse side stepped several paces before stilling for a moment. Porthos observed horse and rider even as he ran a soothing hand over the neck of his own mount.

"Aramis," Porthos breathed. His companion failed to react to his name; instead he removed his hat and ran an ungloved hand through his hair.

" _Aramis_ ," Porthos called.

Aramis' head jerked toward his friend, his right hand flying to the hilt of his sword. Gelos skittered away once more and tossed his head.

"Easy, mate," Porthos cautioned and looked pointedly at Gelos unsettled stance.

Aramis followed Porthos' eyes and realized how his own tension upset his horse. Dropping his reins, he audibly took two deep breaths and focused on relaxing his twitching muscles. The lessening of tension in his legs especially helped to ease Gelos back to a more settled state. Only when he felt he and his mount had regained their usual calm did he reclaim the reins with light hands and looked to Porthos.

"We're nearly to the border," mumbled Aramis as he passed by Porthos and led the way.

Porthos shook his head and followed after.

The day wore on in various hues of grey. There were fleeting moments when the clouds thinned enough to reveal the pale sphere of the sun, but those seconds of light became rarer and rarer as morning turned to afternoon. After they crossed into Spain, the humid air grew ever more thick and heavy until the sky could bear the weight no longer. Fat drops of rain fell to the earth, filling the countryside with its pitter-pattering but doing little to lessen the heat. Swirls of mist billowed up around them until it, taken together with the onset of darkness, made traveling far more dangerous than further progress was worth.

They came across a rocky overhang which faced away from the storm and was miraculously large enough to provide shelter for their horses as well. Porthos and Aramis dismounted, and, stiff and wet, they set up camp.

At last they settled around a crackling fire, wet clothes set out to dry and meager dinner in hand. Although neither of them spoke, the atmosphere was far from silent. The fire spat and cracked, and now and then the wood would hiss and collapse as it burned. The horses carried on their own conversation while drying off and seeking out their meal. All of this was quiet in comparison to the gentle roar of the rain bouncing off of leaves, branches, and rocks.

However this symphony of nature was as silence to Porthos in the absence of Aramis' customary chatter. The marksman sat against the back of their shelter idly prodding the burning branches. His eyes glowed in the firelight, but gone was their customary mischievous glint, the sparkle of mirth. Porthos was confident he could wait Aramis out, yet between the rain, the mission, and Aramis' tension, he found he was in no mood to do so.

"Is this how we'll be spending the whole trip?" he asked without preamble.

"It's not a trip; it's a mission," grumbled Aramis.

"Still."

Aramis looked away from the flames but failed to meet Porthos' gaze.

"Aramis, if I were injured but wouldn't let you help me, how would you feel?"

"Betrayed, like you don't trust me." Aramis finally managed to make eye-contact, and he was held there by the seriousness in Porthos' eyes. "I'm not injured, Porthos."

"Maybe not your flesh and bones, but you can't convince me you're fine. Before now you've not said more than ten words to me today. I'm not blind, Aramis; you've been actin' like this since we started south. Aramis…" Porthos eyes' darted back and forth across the ground as he sought whatever words might sway his friend. "You are my brother. Let me help you if I can."

Aramis rose and crossed to the edge of the overhang. Where he stood, the mist of scattered rain drops drifter over him.

Porthos only moved to breathe. He'd said what he could, and now he was prepared to wait.

Aramis trudged to and fro along the shelter's fringe, left hand landing on his hip and the right carding restlessly through his hair made frizzy by the humidity. After several minutes of this, he turned toward Porthos and took a step away from the rain. His hand ceased its roving in his hair and settled on the back of his neck.

"Do you remember when I laughed at you for being upset at Athos' burial?"

Porthos dipped his head and leaned forward to better hear is friend's whispered words. "I'm not dead, Aramis," Porthos reminded him, tone soft and gentle.

"Clearly." He settled across the fire from Porthos. Lowering his head into his hands, he rubbed around his eyes and brow and the fatigue gathered there. "But you certainly looked it."

"So did Athos."

"Yes, but we had purpose then, and each other. We had a part to play. This time I spent nearly half a day riding to Spain with you loaded on your horse like a corpse." Aramis sighed and lifted his head. "I've faced my own mortality more times than I can count, but rarely am I forced to acknowledge that you are anything less than invincible. And on those occasions when I am, I have never been alone. There's always been Tréville or Athos, _someone_ , but not this time. It sounds childish, but…"

Aramis fell quiet, and Porthos did not say a word as he considered what he'd heard. Thunder rolled around them; sporadic lightning drenched the world in flashes of pale light.

"It's not childish," Porthos stated. "It's not childish to need people. It's not cowardly or weak. How do you think I felt when you were pushed out of a third story window? Or when Athos told me Rochefort threw you in prison and made you a date with the executioner: Brotherhood comes with a price, Aramis." Porthos moved around the fire to sit beside the marksman. "You know, I'd be concerned if you _weren't_ affected by all of this. We're soldiers, and we may put on a brave face, but we're still human."

Peaceful silence descended between them even as they sat watching and listening to the storm.

◊ : ◊ : ◊ : ◊ : ◊ : ◊ : ◊

Athos jolted awake and, throwing is blanket back, stood and distanced himself from his bed roll, as though he could physically distance himself from his nightmare. In it he'd seen Porthos lying bloodied and deathly still in the street, and Aramis' terror echoed in his mind.

He reached for a bottle of wine hoping to dull the sights and sounds of that day. Being Captain, he couldn't attempt drinking it all away the he wanted to, but he'd settled for easing the rush of emotion that haunted him.

When he set the bottle down, his hand drifted to the scarf around his neck, a gift from Porthos delivered by Aramis. His thoughts had been, at least in part, on his brothers since the moment of their departure. Aramis had told him he'd send word as soon as he was able, but reality told him that could be months in the future. Nevertheless Athos tore through every delivery of mail in search of news from Aramis and Porthos.

Deciding to make use of his time awake, Athos donned his coat, cloak, and hat before journeying out in the rain to check on d'Artagnan and the rest of the camp.

He found d'Artagnan having as much trouble sleeping as himself, so the Gascon rose, dressed, and joined Athos on his walk.

They didn't have to speak to know their thoughts were in the same place. Instead each drew strength from the presence of the other until they were too tired to keep their eyes open a moment longer.

As Athos laid down with eyes already closed, he hoped once more that his brothers were as safe as they could be with their luck and in Spanish territory.


	2. Chapter 2

"These _birds_!" Aramis lobbed yet another pebble through the curtain of rain and in the general direction of the treetop housing the twitterpated creatures. "I can't take this much longer." He flopped onto the ground rather pathetically and dragged his hands over his face before resting his arm across his eyes.

Porthos, recounting that this was only the second day they'd been forced to remain under their overhang on account of the pouring rain, huffed in amusement. "How did you survive being in a monastery?"

The next pebble was launched at Porthos' head. The bigger man only laughed more, and Aramis, finding none of it amusing, threw himself at Porthos. After all, he did need to work on his hand-to-hand combat, and wrestling was better than listening to those damned birds for a moment longer.

Athos read through the reconnaissance reports for the umpteenth time that day looking for any potential errors in his advance plan.

"Aramis-" he began and looked up even as he remembered, _ah, yes, he's in Spain_. Borders had a way of hampering the exchange of advice.

He returned his gaze back to the papers laid out if front of him, trying to think of someone who's sharpshooting experience came anywhere near Aramis' for the sake of seeking counsel, but coming up with no one approaching such a qualification, he let the matter go for the moment.

His next thought was to send Porthos ahead as the man had a knack for sniffing out potential ambush sites, but, no, that wouldn't work because he was with Aramis. In Spain.

Athos dropped his head onto his makeshift desk and released a long-suffering sigh. _This is going to be a long war_.

It was with much higher spirits that Aramis and Porthos set off two mornings later. The sun had finally graced Spain with the full glory of its presence thus allowing the previous days' rain some time to be swallowed by the earth. Of course rain is not absorbed by soil in an instant, and hardly by rock at all, and so traversing the mountain paths was still tricky. However it afforded Aramis enough movement and danger that their slow progress bothered him very little if it bothered him at all.

Athos and d'Artagnan moved in a slow circle around each other, neither breaking eye contact.

They were, per the Gascon's request, sparring. Naturally a crowd gathered 'round to watch and, in the case of the majority, bet on the sport provided by the Musketeer Captain and his young friend.

When finally they engaged one another, a great cheer went up from the spectators, money passing in a mounting flurry with every contact. Athos, being far from naïve, let the match drag for a time while d'Artagnan seemed to enjoy the practice as well as the enthusiasm of those gathered.

At last, Athos felt money had changed hands enough times to finally end their game. He quickly confirmed what he'd noted seconds into their sparring: d'Artagnan continually left his side open to attack. He did not hesitate to exploit the weakness in his friend's defense. It was the work of a moment to overcome him, and before d'Artagnan could so much as blink, he was lying face down in the mud.

Groans and laughter filled the air as those who bet against Athos paid up and those who bet against d'Artagnan collected their winnings. Meanwhile the Captain kept his colleague pinned in the mud puddle and even began smearing handfuls of said mud into d'Artagnan's hair.

"Athos," the young man whined out of one side of his mouth in an effort to keep the filth out.

"If you had been fighting a Spanish soldier, you'd be dead. I think some mud in your hair is a fair alternative to your innards spilling into the mud, don't you?" Athos mused with Aramis-like cheeriness before releasing the Gascon and helping him up.

D'Artagnan indicated his understanding then wandered off to change before dinner. As he squelched through the camp, he mentally kicked himself for his error. _I'm not in the garrison any more. I've a wife who's carrying our child. I_ _ **cannot**_ _afford to make such mistakes_.

Porthos followed behind Aramis as they meandered across the Spanish countryside, the sixth day since the rain passed. Aramis led him ever deeper into enemy territory, quizzing Porthos on Spanish the whole way. He'd been pleased to find that Porthos had been learning the language while they'd been apart.

"Are you ever going to tell me where we're going?"

Aramis clicked his tongue and cast a glance at his friend. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I love adventure. It's the mystery that's driving me mad."

"Not to worry, Porthos. We're nearly there."

Porthos was silent for a minute, but his curiosity refused to let the matter go. "Can I guess?"

Aramis sighed but there was no frustration in the act. "If you must."

A wide grin overwhelmed Porthos' features, and he came along side Aramis as the road finally widened. "Are we headed for a person or location?"

Aramis thought for several seconds before stating, "Person in an advantageous location." His answer earned an eye roll.

"Do I know this person?"

"Yes."

"Do I like this person?"

"You think I would make you travel for days to meet with someone you don't like?"

Porthos raised an eyebrow at that. "If it helped the plan or in any way appealed to your love of danger, yes, you would."

Shrugging his shoulders, Aramis chuckled. "Yes, you like this person."

"All right."

"All right? That's it?"

"It's someone I know and like. I'm satisfied."

Aramis studied his friend the way one might an animal behaving abnormally without obvious cause. "If you say so."

An hour later they came to the crest of a hill, and from their vantage point they could see a house nestled at the forest's edge and on a hilltop of its own.

" _That_ is where we're going."

The sight of the house awakened in Porthos' mind a memory of flowing script on a letter, the description of a house in the Spanish countryside, not terribly large but large enough for her to be happy…

"How do you know she's home?" Porthos looked to Aramis as he waited for the answer.

"If she's not, she won't mind us staying there, but she doesn't drift around as much as she did when we were younger."

Despite the distance between their hill and the house, they saw the door open and a women with wild obsidian hair stepped out into the open air.

"Ramona," Porthos beamed, and he along with Aramis urged their steeds into a distance-devouring gallop.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Apologies for the absence!**

Scratched into the wall was a series of short lines. 215 verticals, 52 horizontals, 267 ticks total. 73 tallies from the end there is an intentional gap that marks the day they were separated, the day the Spanish guards dragged Aramis from their cell and never brought him back.

Porthos leaned against that wall and ran a softened, grimy hand over those scratches, those numbered days of captivity. _Strange_ , he thought, _how different a wall can feel when fingers are no longer calloused_. And yet that was far from the only change he'd undergone. His hair was longer, his facial hair grown out of control, his clothes in a poor state, his once well-used muscles wasting away for lack of use. 73 days ago Aramis had been in much the same state, and they'd even made jokes at one another's expense to keep the mood light, or as light as they could keep it while locked away in a Spanish prison.

Porthos exhaled heavily and settled back into the corner of his cell, eyes drifting closed as memory overcame him. They'd seen Ramona and rode like mad men to greet her, but she was a prisoner in her own home. Apparently the soldiers had come and claimed the estate as a Spanish outpost, and when Ramona's husband resisted, he was killed at her feet. The arrival of two Frenchmen at her door did nothing to help her. Declared a traitor, she was to be executed for crimes against Spain, but in the frenzy of Aramis' and Porthos' arrest, she vanished. Porthos was confused when he and Aramis were imprisoned rather than executed, yet prison meant a chance to carry out the mission- or escape at the earliest opportunity.

Carrying out the mission was easier said than done with Aramis elsewhere. To ensure their personal use to the Spanish and avoid their current situation and that which Ramona was sentenced to, they had split the information between them and memorized it before burning the physical evidence. Even after nearly a year of idleness Porthos recalled every detail inked on those papers as though he had them in his hands. 73 days ago he knew Aramis still remembered his half, but 73 days in the hands of cruel jailors could be enough to make a man forget his own name much less sensitive information to be passed to the Spanish.

Sighing, Porthos rubbed his forehead against the wall. Uncertainty stretched far beyond Aramis and himself. Somewhere to the north the rest of his brothers fought on.

* * *

Nine months had never felt so much like ninety years to Athos. War being what it was, there was a continuous stream of fresh supplies and fresher faces coming in and a somber train of condolence letters leaving along with those too wounded to remain at the front. The dead were given burials as proper as situations dictated. After all, retreats left little time to care for lost comrades as faith and decency demanded.

War was a weary business, and Athos despised how his position dictated he remain as distanced from combat as possible. He watched as d'Artagnan ran into battle time and time again, often returning with some evidence of the fight etched into his flesh while Athos stood back, unmarred, physically untouched by the gruesome clashes.

Several months into the war the ache of memory stirred a recklessness in his soul; recollections of campaigns alongside Porthos and Aramis awoke that primal urge to once more act and defend his home and his brotherhood. He suppressed it to the best of his ability, but every day the silence between himself and his friends in Spain stretched on, his need to do something grew. Yet his responsibility to the men under his command weighed just as heavily upon his shoulders as the absence of his brothers upon his heart.

 _One year_ , he told himself. _I'll let them have one year of silence before I tear the continent apart._

* * *

The brisk air invaded the cell and made him shiver in its wake. Aramis longed to sit, to rest, to curl up and nestle away from the biting chill, but forced to stand as he is, he hoped to endure it by sheer force of will. His arms were chained to walls on either side of him. _Like Samson_ , he thought from time to time when he wasn't so focused on remaining upright that he could spare thoughts for other matters. Bound as he was, sitting and even kneeling were out of the question. Stand or strain his shoulders to the point of dislocation: these were the only options he could see, and he despised them both.

He'd lost track of time not long after they moved him there, away from Porthos and their small window and crude calendar. By their estimation it was late October when they were separated. There in Aramis' windowless room it could be May outside and he'd be none the wiser. The guards kept no schedule that he could tell, simply wandering in from time to time. On occasion he felt he must have been left alone for well over a day before he was given any sign of life beyond his personal purgatory. Being in the midst of such a period his head bobbed as exhaustion took its toll.

When the door was thrown open, the orange light from the hall throwing his rather pitiful shadow across the wall before him, his eyelids fluttered as he worked to gain some shred of awareness. The chains hit the ground with such a clatter that Aramis flinched, his nerves nothing like what they had been before that mess of a mission. Stumbling the entire way, he was pulled down several corridors and into a room he had no time to observe before being forced to his knees beside Porthos. _Porthos? Please don't be a dream._

He was dimly aware of a well-dressed man speaking and standing in front of them. "…can't bring them to the king in such a state…"

 _The king?_ Aramis ceased paying attention after that. Surely he'd missed some vital piece of information that they were now to be brought before the king, but he was beyond tired and in no frame of mind to attempt piecing anything together as he slowly tipped toward Porthos.


End file.
